


The Morning After

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, HMCWTIYS, Love, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Mutual Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Crowley has been waking up alone since he first learned how to sleep. Until a morning comes when he’s not alone anymore.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 290
Collections: USEDTOBEHMC_WRITING_CONTEST





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Usedtobehmc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/gifts).



> Last-minute entry for [usedtobehmc](https://www.instagram.com/usedtobehmc/?hl=en)'s contest! One of her pictures really got wedged in my brain and I had to write it out.
> 
> Huge thanks to [entanglednow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow) for betaing this faster than the speed of light because she's made of magic.

Crowley has been waking up alone since he first learned how to sleep.

For six thousand years, he’s been waking up with his hair spiking in all directions, an arm gone numb curled under his head, and the dry lips of someone whose mouth has been hanging open for several hours.

Until a morning comes when he’s not alone anymore.

He wakes up and realises his pillow is breathing - rather, that it’s no pillow at all. It’s Aziraphale.

It takes him a moment to remember the night before. He’s not sure if it was him who leaned towards the angel or Aziraphale that reached out to him. Someone did, is what matters. Someone bridged the distance. He remembers his hands were shaking as he cupped Aziraphale’s face; he remembers the angel made a noise like a whimper when they first kissed.

They’d been wanting for so long, the reality of it was utterly overwhelming. Crowley knew - Crowley had known for a while that Aziraphale had feelings for him. From the night the angel gave him the tartan thermos full of holy water all those years ago, under the red-pink lights of Soho. ‘Too fast’ didn’t mean ‘in the wrong direction’. It meant ‘wait for me’. So Crowley did.

They kissed, and Crowley felt his face burn. All the way up to his ears, down his neck and chest. He was certain he was red all over. His insides must’ve melted, he felt liquid everywhere. Suddenly he knew what people meant when they talked about knees turning to jelly and butterflies in the stomach. Aziraphale pulled back and rested his forehead against Crowley’s, smiling, and Crowley realised - this is what happiness is supposed to feel like.

That had been his last coherent thought. Aziraphale asked if he’d like to ‘spend the night’, and Crowley nodded.  _ Finally,  _ the angel was free to ask. _ Finally, _ Crowley could say yes without fearing any consequences for either of them.

He should have known Aziraphale would be an eager lover. The angel didn’t indulge in anything with moderation. He enjoyed keeping books, so he’d made himself a bookshop filled with antique tomes that rivalled the collections of most museums in London. He liked excellent food and wine, and not a day passed without him discovering some new delicious restaurant or celebrating the most mundane ‘special occasion’, sharing a bottle with Crowley. Crowley should have known that, once the day arrived, Aziraphale wouldn’t love him by halves.

They were up most of the night. They rushed nothing; discovering each other’s body and what gave them pleasure slowly and reverently. When they finished, they did it all over again. Several times over, until the urgency died down and they were left with rumpled sheets, clothes strewn all over, two bodies entangled and sweaty and tired and wonderfully human.

Aziraphale was absolutely giddy, as if drunk. In a sense, perhaps he was. Drunk on sex, what a thing. Crowley’s limbs felt weightless and soft. The angel’s bed had to be the most comfortable piece of furniture he’d ever laid his sharp-cornered body on. It felt like floating on a cloud. Bit trite as a metaphor, but he was so happy he didn’t care.

Now, in the morning, he’s embarrassed he went out like a lightbulb. He’s never been good at staying awake, and in the post-sex bliss it was extremely easy to let himself slip.

But Aziraphale seems unbothered, he’s slowly stroking up and down his back, his heartbeat calm and strong. Maybe Crowley had even drooled on his chest a little, and yet Aziraphale - fastidious, prissy, pain-in-the-arse Aziraphale - doesn’t seem to give a toss.

The sob bubbles up in his throat like a yawn. Aziraphale’s hand on his spine stops. Crowley tries to pass it off as a cough, but doesn’t think he’s succeeded. He can’t worry about it now though, because his eyes are doing something strange - they feel hot and… wet?

Oh Satan. Is he crying?

He stays as still as he can, not daring to blink at all - if he blinks, the tears will fall, and he won’t allow that. As it turns out, not even an occult being has any power over that, and the disobedient tears roll down his cheeks anyway, wetting the golden hair on the angel’s chest.

What a mess.

He forces his lungs to breathe in and out slowly as he tries to figure out what’s happening to him. It’s—it’s an acute sense of loss, is what it is. Why? He has lost nothing. If anything, he finally got what he’s wanted all along. His future will consist of guarding over this Earth he helped save, squabbling with Aziraphale over the pettiest things, taking the angel out for meals, travelling the world with him. Retirement, freedom,  _ love _ . What does he have to cry about?

Thankfully, Aziraphale seems to have decided he’ll pretend he hasn’t noticed. A mercy Crowley is grateful for, more than he knows how to explain. His pride would have never recovered. The angel’s soft, warm hand starts moving again, as if nothing is amiss, and Crowley tries to work through his feelings.

The thing is… the thing is.

The thing is. It wasn’t fair, what happened to him. It wasn’t fucking fair, alright? And if, in time, it hurt less and less, it never disappeared. The anger gurgled back up sometimes, and it still stung like it’d just happened. It became a pocket-sized anger, something he always carried around his neck. Small, but no less painful.

In the grey light of the morning after, as he lies on Aziraphale’s chest, perfectly safe and comfortable, he realises he has lost something indeed. He’s lost his anger. He clung to it when he had nothing else, it’s how he survived the dive down from Heaven and the teeth-rattling coldness of Hell. And now… he can’t find it in himself to be angry anymore.

Perhaps… he can’t help but think that, perhaps, it was supposed to happen like this all along. He was supposed to be expelled from Heaven, meet Aziraphale on the wall, fall arse-over-tit for him. The pain he endured - and everything the angel bore himself - might have had a meaning. It transformed him into a demon who’d stand by a stubborn angel’s side at the end of the world, desperate to save it. Maybe it all makes sense, in the end.

It’s absurd. And unfair. Most humans spend their lives thinking their suffering has meaning, when really it doesn’t. Crowley has seen enough of them being born, growing, and passing to know better. Pain is a part of life, and nothing but dumb luck can protect them against it. That’s just the truth. It makes no sense, it was never meant to. So why - why should he be exempt? Why should his suffering have a meaning? Why can he feel his anger draining away from him with every calm heartbeat in the angel’s chest?

Aziraphale holds him for a long time, keeping him close, kissing his head. Until Crowley is done crying and falls asleep again.

When he wakes up once more, Aziraphale isn’t in bed with him anymore, but he can hear him shuffling about in the kitchenette. He’d bet the angel is making tea. Crowley turns towards the window, spotting a pigeon seeking refuge from the rain. It hops around, never safe, never staying in one spot for long. Crowley knows that if he were to suddenly move towards it, even though there's a window between them, the bird would scare and fly away. Never relaxed, birds, are they?

Aziraphale walks in with a tray - two cups of tea, a few biscuits.

“Crowley,” he says, and he smiles like the sun itself. Something in Crowley’s chest tugs at the fondness the angel has poured into the two syllables of his chosen name. “You’re awake.”

Crowley makes a show to stretch and yawn, as if he’d had a long restorative sleep and not an existential crisis with his head pressed between the angel’s nipples. “Completely wore me out, didn’t you?”

“About as much as you did me.” Aziraphale doesn’t even have the decency to blush as he slips back into bed, balancing the tray on his knees. “Milk and three sugars, just as you like it.”

Crowley grumbles that he doesn’t like sweet things as he takes the black cup the angel has reserved for him. Which is, of course, absolutely perfect. As he sips it slowly, Aziraphale takes his free hand, intertwining their fingers.

“I think I’d like to stay in today. If you don’t mind. This weather is just dreadful.”

“That it is.” Crowley agrees, glancing back towards the pigeon at the window. “What should we do then?”

“Well.” Aziraphale looks down at a random spot on the floor. “I rather thought we could discuss you moving in here. Maybe miracle in an extra room or two somewhere…”

Crowley gapes, staring at the pretty curve of Aziraphale’s big right ear as his brain catches up with what the angel is saying. Shit. This is real. This is really happening. Aziraphale’s shoulder bumps against his and he feels like that first day on the wall of the Garden, the angel’s warm wing shielding him from the storm.

“Right. Sure.” He squeezes the angel’s hand and grins. “This place’s going to need a lot of work.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too.

Maybe Crowley doesn’t need to keep hopping around in the rain, watching his back, worrying. Maybe, at last, he can finally rest.

**Author's Note:**

> The picture I used is picture #5 on [this post](https://www.instagram.com/p/CJtpw9NFGbQ/?igshid=35y9gdnx1nkm).


End file.
